


Always Falling, Never Landing

by deargravity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Dean, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gun Violence, Heroin, In the first part, John Winchester Not Being an Asshole, John Winchester is sober, No Castiel, Non-Hunter Winchesters, Sad, Sam Winchester is a Saint, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural - Freeform, a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deargravity/pseuds/deargravity
Summary: "You're a really shitty person, you know that Dean?""Of course I do; why else would I be on the roof of a 10 story parking garage on New Year's Eve?"Just a quick Supernatural angst fic for the winter season. Chapter titles from Moriarty 's quote.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on Ao3, so that's cool. I'm also writing/posting this on Wattpad under the username @deargravity. It's sort of short and sad, but I'll try and update soon. Feedback would be great!

"Alright Dad, I'm heading out with Jess. Happy New Years if I don't see you before midnight!" Sam calls to his father, who has been cleaning up his act recently. He's totally sober this New Year's Eve, and Sam hopes he can say the same for his brother, Dean.

Dean has been out of it half the time, strung out on who-knows-what, and suicidally depressed the other half, until recently. He tried to shoot himself on the 19th of November, and he almost succeeded. He would be a mess of brains on the wall if Sam hadn't walked in. The scene still plays unrelentingly in Sam's head every night Dean doesn't come home.

\------------------------------

Dean was sitting on his bed. He'd been living at home while going to a local college. Sam had been home every so often, because he and Jess were still finalizing a purchase on a small apartment.

It was late when Sam arrived, sometime around 2:00 am. He'd been at a midnight movie showing with Jess and some mutual friends.

He was walking to his bedroom when he heard crying from behind Dean's door. Crying and then a gun being loaded with a single bullet, an undeniably perspicuous act.

"Sammy, is that you?" Dean asked hoarsely, the ache of tears staining his words.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me. What's up?" Sam kept his voice soft and full of cautious compassion.

He sniffled. "Nothing Sam, go to bed." He put something heavy down on a bedside table, something metallic and cruel. "I love you Sammy. Goodnight."

"Dean, no. You can't just sit there and wait for me to fall asleep so you can blow your own brains out. I'm not an idiot, I know what's happening behind that door, and If I had a half a mind I'd break it down right now. I couldn't sleep anyways, I'd be full with anxiety. You should know that by now, you're my big brother for God's sake! But this isn't one of those things you can say 'goodnight, I love you' to, it needs to be dealt with. Right now. Open the door, Dean."

"I know you know what's happening. You always were the smart one. I know you can't sleep but you need to at least leave. You can't be here. You can't see this. I can't deal with this, Sammy, I can't deal with anything. Obviously. Goodbye, Sammy. Give my best to Jess."

"Dean I swear, if you don't open the goddamn door right this very minute I will bust in there myself. Don't do this."

The handgun was picked up from the table, and cocked. The sound made Sam flinch. His heartbeat started speeding and a slight trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. This was his brother's life one **_BANG_** away from ending bloodily.

Dean's voice sounded muffled and distorted now, like something was in his mouth. "Sam, you really don't want to open the door, trust me." He sighed and pulled the distorting object, presumably the gun, from his mouth to speak clearer. "Open the door and I pull the trigger. It's that simple. And you don't deserve to see that."

There it was: the ultimate conundrum. Open the door and be responsible for his death, or walk away from the door and not be there to prevent his death. They're really the same in the end, if you think about it. What's the right answer?

None of the above.

"Fine, Dean, I won't come in. So put the gun down. I just want to talk. If you pull that trigger now you'll die never seeing my wedding. Jess and I are eloping next week. You'll never seen your nieces or nephews. We both want kids. You'll never see it in your own life either, and I know you've always wanted a son. If you pull that trigger you're throwing away your life and you're ruining mine. I won't carry your casket the same week I plan to carry my wife over the threshold. You know this isn't what mom would have wanted."

Sam sighed. Either he would or he wouldn't.

Dean sighed. He couldn't.

"Gimme a minute."

He had to clean up the mess he had strewn over his room: a note (for self explanatory purposes), a needle and spoon (for fairly clear reasons, none of which Sam know about), a sheet behind him (for cleaning up easier, a thoughtful last action), and a loaded gun, (for unambiguous reasons.) He hid the spoon and needle setup in a shoe box that he put in his closet, and rolled down his sleeves to hide the track marks. The gun was hidden extremely carefully under a loose floorboard, along with a box of bullets. He threw the sheet on the floor and crumpled up the note, tossing it under his desk.

"Come in." Dean beckoned, embarrassed and ashamed of what had almost happened.

Sam turned the handle, relieved.

"Oh yeah, one sec. I need to unlock the door." Dean got up, unhooked the latch, and then sat back down on his bed, currently unsullied by gore.

They both took a deep breath, and Sam entered the room. It was cleaner than he had expected.

"Dean!" Sam ran over to the bed and hugged him, immensely glad to see him alive.

Dean hung his head, not as glad. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm such a goddamn _coward_."

"Don't say that. That isn't you talking. Look at your pupils, that isn't you."

His pupils were dilated to the brinks of his irises, heroin pumping through his tired veins.

Dean sighed in defeat. "You're right. It's not me but it _is_ my fault. I'm...using."

"Using what?" Sam asked, confused.

"Dammit Sam I'm a...I'm a fucking smackhead. I'm using heroin."

"Holy hell, Dean. Why? Why would you ever touch that shit?"

How do you explain it? How do you explain hating yourself so much, hating the life you've created so much, that you destroy yourself shot by shot? That being sedated is the only way to get by? That, in your mind, an accidental overdose isn't something worth trying to avoid? That you've given up?

"I can't. I can't defend it, but I can't live without it. I'm sorry."

"We can talk about this later. Let's get you cleaned up. You're drooling and crying."

"I am _not_ crying."

"Whatever you say. And Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Don't you ever do anything like this again. Don't you fucking _dare_. I'll love you till the end, you're my big brother, but the end isn't now. The end isn't here. So don't live this life like it is."  
\------------------------------

But all that was over a month ago. He was better now, right? He's probably out partying with some college friends. Beer pong, stupid party hats. He doesn't need to babysit him.

Dean has been clean for three weeks, and Sam knows the new year will bring only auspicious change. It'll be alright.

The only thing left to do is enjoy the evening with his wife as newlyweds, and drink some champagne. It's still only 10:00 after all! The night is young.

 


End file.
